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Not long ago we celebrated a child’s birthday at my house. We’ve yet to do a party at some outside location, such as Chuck E. Cheese or the local pony farm. Maybe someday, but for now I have a surfeit of children and a dearth of nerve.
On that day we enjoyed a houseful of guests. My mother, who is a quite accomplished cake decorator, supplied the pastry. Nevertheless, as a small group of my friends gathered around to admire her handiwork she apologized profusely for her ineptitude.
“What are you talking about?” said one of my friends. “It’s perfect! There’s nothing at all wrong with this cake!”
My mother answered as you’d probably expect: She began pointing out the cake’s many flaws. “No one would notice these,” said another friend. “Especially not little children.”
“She’d notice.” My mother looked toward me. “She’s such a perfectionist.”
“XXXXXX? A perfectionist?” responded one of my closest friends. “She’s just about the last person I’d call a perfectionist.” My other friends chimed in their agreement and added a few well-chosen examples of my actions which fell far short of perfection. Their examples were so very spot-on, in fact, that a casual observer would have been more likely to call me a slob than a perfectionist.
My mother listened but I knew that their stories were unlikely to change her mind. Over forty years she’s developed an idea of who I am, an idea that so often bears little resemblance to reality. It’s frustrating, but I have to wonder how common this is. Do all mothers do this? Will I do this to my daughters and son?
Please advise.

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